


Grasping the Spider's Thread

by Roturier



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Mature but not extreme, Multi, NON GRAPHIC UNDERAGE SEX, NON RAPE TRIGGERING, Not much worse than anime, but more graphic, deprivations not left to imagination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-15 07:09:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9224384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roturier/pseuds/Roturier
Summary: My version of what happened when Ciel first met the demon, and the demon was first conscious of the boy. A retelling of those last days before Ciel (or 'Ciel' depending on your view of the 'Two Ciels' Theory) and the demon made their contract. Told from Ciel Phantomhive's POV, with the last chapter from the fresh-from-Hell Demon's POV.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> One of my earlier stories. When I went to pick up this story from ffnet, I was really shocked that nearly 5000 people had read the story, or at least the story had had that many hits--a real shocker for me.

They beat me badly this time. I can feel it: I will not be able to bear very many more like that. Mine has never been a strong body. They slammed my head into the edge of that stone table—or altar, or whatever it is, a number of times and since then my eyes...I cannot make them work together, cannot get them to see a single image, making it hard to see. Nor will my head stop pounding. I feel nauseous, dizzy, painful. 

I suppose I'll never get a good look at the thing that's been watching us now—Well actually, I think it's just watching _me_.

Not that I could see it before, but at least with two working eyes I stood a chance of catching a glimpse. I could at the least focus on the spot that rustled and sighed in the silence when all other sounds ceased, when the other children had finally drifted off to sleep, slipped into unconsciousness or died of their hunger and wounds. There would be just this tiniest of sighs and movement, and sometimes a breath of air against my ear, or on the back of my neck, making the hair there rise up in warning, and sometimes the phantom feel of a touch against my cheek, or fingers up my thigh or down the length of my body when nothing is there...  Now I think on it, my eyes weren't so important. I felt and heard it more than anything else.

Sometimes there were even words.

Words I was sure no one heard but me—which is why I said I thought it was watching me particularly—though I don't know why I should interest it. I was never a naughty boy, and I'm not the only child of a titled family being held here. There's nothing else special about me. Still, the words seemed to echo in my head alone, muttering about the injustices I've suffered, the torments I've suffered and the sweet taste of revenge. They don't really seem like my thoughts. For a while I ignored it because I thought I must simply be going mad. But after thinking about it, I don't feel particularly mad. And something about the voice seemed quite real to me. Real and... wicked?

Not as wicked as these people holding us, or so it seems to me. Anyhow, whatever it is, it quiets and retreats into the darkness when the occultists return. They keep reappearing unexpectedly, with no fixed schedule I can sense, (it's difficult to tell the passing of time here, but it's clear sometimes they come every day sometimes days go by. They come prancing about, slashing themselves and each other, sloshing blood and alcohol everywhere whilst reading aloud from these mouldy old tomes they bring with them, rending and torturing, buggering us and each other, and murdering children on that stone altar. They're like the Baal worshipers mum read me about from the Bible once to explain something said  in the Times. And they're about as effective as well from what I can tell.

Actually, I think perhaps they are trying to raise up a devil for themselves.

Actually, maybe they already have done.

Perhaps that's what it is moving in the shadows when things get quiet. I don't quite know how to say this, but it feels... Infernal? Dangerous? But it doesn't seem to like the look of this lot any better than I do. Every time they show up it does a bunk.

 I wouldn't know what appeals to a devil, but they certainly don't do much for me. Laughing raucously and behaving lewdly amongst themselves, rutting on their altar and on the floor, mussing up their carefully painted symbols...honestly, they don't seem very serious about it, whatever it is they're trying to do. Perhaps this is why he is rejecting them. Or perhaps I'm wrong and this just how you appeal to a devil.

They are back again now which only means one thing: they're going to give devil raising another go and another of our number will die, at least one, and he or she will be the lucky one, though no one really wants to be next. We in the cages fall silent, hoping to turn invisible as they come to gloat over us, taking their time, poking, twisting, making their selections. There are not many left now.

One of them laughs and says "And who shall it be today, my ducklings?" They were coming close to my cage so without hesitation I reached out and did the most painful thing I could think of to the boy in the cage with me: I reached between his legs and twisted, giving him a kick for good measure. His howl immediately drew the vultures to us.

"What ails this one all of a sudden?"

"Cramp, probably. It's tight in these cages."

"Or terror at our approach. He's been here long enough to know what it signifies." They laugh at that. One reaches a coarse, red hand through the bars and tries to lay hold of his leg while another works the complicated lock. The one with the thick red paws latches onto my cage mate and his cries escalate to blubbering howls for his 'mummy'. The smell of terror and fresh-spilled urine fills the air around me as I cling to the furthest corner of the tiny space, my arms locked onto the bars, trying to be invisible. I take care to turn my face away: I have learnt to my cost they fancy my eyes.

"Come forth little one, the devil will surely be pleased with your pretty form and yellow hair," a fat one at the back croons, clearly wanting those things for himself, devil be damned.

"What of the other one with the beautiful eyes?" says a new voice, new but a familiar one to me. I look back to see an exceedingly tall man dressed like a gentleman, all in black, a leather mask on his face that resembles curling black flames, or maybe curving feathers. I cannot see his eyes properly-there is something odd there but my blurred vision defeats me.

"Perhaps," the tall one drawls in a voice like treacle that recalls the one I've been hearing in my head: "perhaps his little cage mate with the pretty eyes gave him a kick to turn attention away from himself?"

Bastard.

"Have him out as well then. We should teach him not to touch what does not belong to him." Another great meaty paw closes over the chain attached to my leg and I am jerked across the cage as well. I vow I will not give them the satisfaction of seeing my tears or hearing me cry out.

Nor do I, though I bite through my cheek resisting.

And all the while the tall one holds himself aloof, simply watching the proceedings. Smug bastard.

And that is what led to this latest beating. But as bad as it was, it was nothing to what was done to the other boy. His body violated, prodded, invaded in scores of ways, he bleeds and seeps and dribbles now in an unappealing heap of unconscious flesh at the other end of our shared cage. In the end they called him a failure and tossed him back in. the devil did not come for him, either. The masked gaggle slowly file out of the room, disappointed once again.

 

"Who knew a devil could be so choosy? Not them, eh?" the tall one chuckles in a sweetly inflected whisper, melting back into the shadows as the others leave. So that _was_ it, _him_ , _the thing who watches, a self-described devil!_

"They beat me hard, thanks to your smart mouth," I cry out. It has made me short of breath, short of temper and reckless, I realise."Show yourself or fuck off, bastard wight!" I ordered into the silence. The two children in the next cage and the one who shares mine jerk hard at my loud voice, groaning and instinctively throwing their hands up to protect themselves—raised voices and raised fists go together in this new world of ours.

I heard another chuckle, dark and somehow seductive— I know little of seduction but I know what it means and that is how I would say it: seductive. Because it made me want to hear more, in spite of everything.

Yes, I'm young, but I know about carnal acts now and the words that go with them as well. I've seen that rude, laughably awkward struggle to relieve that awful itch numerous times now. Crude, unadorned fucking, frottage and forced fornication, yes, yes, far more than I ever wanted to know, thanks to these masked monsters who hold us captive here. They've taught both by example and hands-on. But this voice...this voice is something else again. Its words beguile, slip one over the other the way melting chocolate slips over the tongue, at once bitter and sweet, decadent and...desirable. The tone of it causes heat to gather in my gut in a way I don't really understand but it makes me think of those other acts, though I don't see the connexion. In spite of the beating it cost me, I want to hear more of that voice.

"I said show yourself!"

"Oh? And what will you give me if I do as you demand of me, little lordling?" it whispers, the wind of the words somehow stirs the hair lying against my neck sending a chill through my body. My anger makes me brave... and foolish.

"Well, what is your pleasure, devil? My resources are rather limited at the moment. I have piss-soaked trousers, a pot full of shit in the corner here—oh! and a few bloody, dripping wounds, thanks to your interference a while ago. Or perhaps you'd like to have my cage mate over there. You're welcome to him, though he hasn't long to live, I think. I suppose it depends on what you want with him whether he's of any use to you. Mind you, he's not really mine to give, but somehow, after crouching in this cage in the dark for Christ knows how long, I find myself pretty cavalier about things like rights. I suspect they mean very little to you, as well."

"Mmm, quite so." The voice approves and I can hear both laughter and surprise in equal measure. An eerie silence descends. After a few moments I suddenly hear my cage mate's muffled voice moaning weak objections to something. He is suddenly struggling as though he can't breathe, or struggling _with_ something. He thrashes and kicks—kicks _me_ because of course these iron gaols were never made for comfort. They are neither wide nor high enough for me to escape his thrashing legs. In the end I guess he has a right to kick me for what I did to him earlier. Soon enough his kicking tails off into a long, shuddering spasm that straightens out his limbs and holds them there, quivering against me and in my lap. Then there is a horrible, drawn out, rattling breath that turns my stomach, but after that he goes lax and I am grateful. I listen carefully for him to breathe in again but it doesn't happen; he is gone.

The thing has taken him. At my word, the thing that watches has taken him! I must not lower my guard—not that I could fight off a thing of darkness and shadows, whatever it is. My condition is so laughably pathetic I could not fight off a forward maggot, I am so weak.Still, I should double my guard...

But really, wouldn't death be a way to escape this hell?

What comes next makes my stomach heave. It is a sensation of soft, wet heat, of what can only be a hot mouth on my arm where my captives caned and battered me to the point of blood and breaking bones. Pain blossoms anew and my stomach lurches and strains to eject its contents. Only of course there _are_ none, so there is only that sickening sensation of dry heaves and the burning of acid climbing my throat which I struggle to hold back.

"Off! nng... Get OFF me!" I cry, striking out with my good arm only to realise my invisible molester has progressed to lapping up the spilled blood from the rusty, filthy cage bottom. The thing has taken me at my word again, taken what I flippantly offered. I cringe away, realising it is beside me, _right inside the cage with me._

"How did you get in here?!" I demand.

Laughter.

"Physical barriers do not hinder me. I go where I please. Even _through_ you if I should care to." I can see a tall form now, nothing more than a darker shadow in the ubiquitous darkness. A silhouette, but with eyes that glow rose, like a cat's in the dark, redly reflecting the small amount of light cast by the single, distant torch burning fitfully in a bracket near the exit. The silhouette is slowly straightening up over me, standing erect as though the iron bars that trap me do not exist for it—for him: it is definitely a man's voice I am hearing, as well as a male form I am seeing, slender and very tall. Its steps scrape and ring like iron-striking-iron on the cage bottom and make my teeth ache. I look up with envy despite my fear.

"I wish I had your talent, devil. I cannot recall when last I got to stand up and stretch. I doubt my legs would hold me anymore." Hopelessness lends me daring; I am speaking to some shade of hell as though I were its equal.

It is impossibly tall and sleek and black. "I thank you for the refreshment, little lordling, you are a most generous host."

"There's still the shit pot over there if you're peckish."

"Again, I thank you, but I must decline for now."

"You have nice manners for a devil."

"The Devil is a fine gentleman, have you not heard?"

"I've heard of the milk of human kindness too. Didn't make it real, did it." More soft dark laughter echoes and bounces eerily off the walls and arches overhead. I marvel that no one else seems to hear it, or hear me speaking to it for that matter.

"What a tart little tongue. You are a most amusing little morsel. I must definitely save you for last."

"Oh? Well, lucky me..." This makes the fiend laugh fit to burst.

"You should examine your little companion over there. He has many things you could make use of, and no further use for them himself: a stout pair of socks, for instance, a heavier jacket than your own and also a bit of blanket. If nothing else you could sleep on them. This stone floor must surely suck the heat from that fragile little body of yours when you lie on it. But don't wait too long. He will stiffen up soon enough and stay that way long past morning. Then you'll never get them off him before that old drunk comes back in to drag out the dead."

"How thoughtful of you." I sneer, but do exactly as he suggests—dead bodies have long since lost their terror for me.

I lay down on the things I have scavenged. They still smell of the other boy and I don't like the reminder. In a few days, after the smell fades, and if I'm still alive, perhaps then I'll think about putting them on. Pain is all I can think about now. I ache terribly from the beating I was given and the pain is quickly growing as thins swell and blacken. So to take my mind from my throbbing, swelling arm and instead concentrate on trying to draw out the fiend a little longer in conversation, stop him walking away.

"These beasts who cage us, will you give them whatever it is they want of you?"

More sputtering laughter. "Whatever for? They have nothing I want."

"And yet you're here."

No answer, only the ringing footfalls fading away.

"Are deals all you're interested in?"

A subdued chuckle and the steps pause. "Why, little one, did _you_ have something in mind?"

"No," I sigh, squirming to find a comfortable way of laying down and bundling up. It is clear my infernal visitor is leaving. "Not really. Only passing the time, trying to take my mind off  hurt and hunger."

"There's always the shit pot," he suggests, offering me what I had offered him, and I can hear the laughter in his voice and can't help a little snort of my own. He has a clever tongue, I'll give him that.

"Not really to my taste either, though who knows ... if I'm down here long enough it might start to look better to me." More laughter. It seems to recede and echo and then the place feels empty again. The cold clamps down. I look about me as I am able. The reflective eyes and tall form are no longer anywhere to be seen.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Now lacking the distraction of that voice, pain now engulfs me. I begin to feel warmer than I should and start to wonder if a fever has taken hold of me. I lay my head on my good arm and allow my consciousness to drift.

Dreams come, but they have no form or light, only darkness and a muttering voice that occasionally erupts in deep, elegant laughter. Hands seem to touch me everywhere. Not blows this time, but gentle, probing, exploratory touches. Every inch of my body is manipulated, petted, mouthed. I feel my body curling in on itself, not liking the insistent fingers going places even my own have not, but at least they are not causing me further pain. Again I feel that mouth on my swollen, wounded arm, but instead of making things worse, the pain actually seems to lessen and the feverish feeling to subside. Warm arms encircle and cradle me as though I were an infant. My head is gently pressed to a firm breast and shoulder which radiates heat and shudders with the regular thudding of a strong heart.

Its rather nice, really, I decide, snuggling into this imaginary warmth. I should remember this fantasy. It will be a great comfort to me when I am trying to find sleep on this cold stone floor. A hand with long, slender fingers combs gently through my hair, working the tangles out, brushing it from my eyes, tucking it neatly behind my ears. The nails are rather long and jagged and they snag at my skin and hair sometimes, which makes me shudder, but compared to most of the nightmares I've had since being brought to this hell hole—they were all filled with rooms full of roaring flame, shrieks, the stench of burning hair and other unbearable memories—this is all quite soothing and appreciated. I find myself comforted in spite of my strong sense that it is all wrong, wrong, wrong. I know there are no arms for me any longer. I watched them die in those roaring flames. No one will be comforting or rescuing me. There is no one left to really miss me now. No one left in the world of the living who will care enough to hold me like this or soothe me, or worry about whether I am frightened or hurt, alive or dead.

I decide it hardly matters whether this is wrong or not, or if it is imaginary comfort I give myself. I should gratefully accept whatever comfort I can scrape together and be glad of it, whatever the source. So I don't struggle against the cradling arms. In fact, I reach up in my dream and thread my arms about the place where shoulders and a neck should be, and I am surprised to find strong, broad shoulders and hot skin beneath my fingers. I hear a breath sharply drawn: someone else sounds surprised as well. It is all very pleasant and comforting. I burrow into the exotic-smelling warmth, wishing with all the strength I have left in me that it could be true and this could be real. I may have even said that aloud... I do talk in my sleep sometimes. I am so tired of sleeping on cold damp stone, breathing air fouled with the heavy stench of excrement, soured bodies and putrifying flesh. My hands creep around the dream torso that holds me. Such a delicious sensation: the comfort of another living body against my own.

It doesn't last of course. All too soon it all fades away to blankness, chill and filthy, slimy, cold, hard, stone.

I am jerked out of my suffocating sleep by the shaking of my cage and the sharp sounds of heavy, iron-shod boots scraping and scuffing against the floor. A pair of guards are trying to get my deceased cage mate out of our shared cage to dispose of the body. But he's stiffened now, just as the black thing from last night warned he would be, locked into a curled position far too wide to fit through the door. They are having a hell of a time getting him unbent enough to pass through. It hurts me to watch them cursing and kicking at the frail little body— though I don't know why. He is long past feeling any of it.Still I try and keep my face turned away.

When that horror is finally over—in the end they had to break his bones to get him out- I am handed a tin bowl of thin gruel that looks to be oats and barley mixed with some bones, a piece of cheese rind and a floating blob of fat. It smells off—they have surely pawed through some rubbish tip to find these ingredients and the smell is dreadful. There is also a small, rock-hard crust of coarse bread to go with it. I can't decide which is worse: the hunger twisting my gut or the nausea I feel at the rancid smell coming off of it.

_You should eat it even so, little one. Your body needs the nourishment._ The now familiar voice whispers in my head again. _So this is madness_ , I think: _disembodied voices giving me suspect health advice._

Laughter again. _You are not mad, little one. At least not just yet you're not,_ it whispers. _I shall prove it to you then, that I am no a voice you've manufactured out of grief and loneliness, shall I? Pay attention then: the boy in the grey weskit, in the cage behind yours, to your left: he was given a scrap of meat in his bowl. If you are quick and bold, perhaps you will be able to take it from him_.

Without thinking, I reach back and slap down at the hands and bowl of the boy in the cage behind me. I succeed in tipping out the contents onto the stone floor and sure enough, there is a string of gristly meat and a rather large piece of turnip or possibly potato. I snatch both and quickly shove them in my mouth and swallow nearly whole, filth and all, choking over the long string of  connective tissue but determined to get them down now, while scooting away to the front of my cage to avoid the other boy's furious, desperate arms clutching at me. They will all avoid me now, knowing how far I am willing to go to survive a little longer. Why am I so bent on refusing to give in? We are none of us getting out of this nightmare alive.

I quietly finish the bread I was given, soaking and softening it in the gruesome slop, while turning over what just happened in my head: so that will have been the proof the voice intended to show me, that the thought had to have come from outside myself. It contained information I did not possess. There would have been no way I could've known what the boy behind me had in his bowl unless someone else told me. I look up at the dark corners of the room again and those reflective eyes are once again looking back at me. Ruddy eye shine and perhaps the glimmering grey sickle-shaped shadow of a grin slightly lighter than the shadows around it.

It must be true then. Something infernal, possibly something of evil intent has taken notice of me. Should I be gripped with dread or absurdly encouraged? I only know it wold be rude not to acknowledge help when it's been extended to me, and I was very definitely just the recipient of some genuine help. I direct a nod of thanks in the direction of the eyes. Immediately I hear a suppressed chuckle and by the way the eyes move and briefly wink out in the blackness I believe my nod of acknowledgement has been returned.

I have just stolen food from a starving child, at the instigation of a devilish shade. What am I becoming?

 


	3. Chapter 3

Later, when all is still and I am certain the other children are sleeping, I begin to hear metallic-sounding steps tok, tok, tok, tok echoing around the chamber, coming down along the line of the cages. Someone—or some _thing--_ is walking along, dragging something hard along the cage bars so it makes a sound something like a clacking machine running taktaktaktaktaktaktaktak along the bars. The demon, if that's what it is, has returned, dragging its claws along the cage bars.

"Thinking a little more clearly now you've got something in your tum, hmm?" he asks.

"Are you taking credit for that now?"

"Well, I did nudge them along. On their own they might've forgot again. "

"Why bother." I look away. "all you've done is prolong this hell for me."

"Oh little one, this is no Hell. Not even close, I assure you."

All I could manage was a miserable grunt in reply.

"Well there's gratitude for you," the creature muttered then stared at me for a few moments, tapping its claws on the stone. "You're not feeling well, are you. You've gone quite green."

"Oh. Do you really think so?" I had more angry words I wanted to say but the horrible slop I'd eaten earlier was beginning to turn on me and I let go a humiliating belch of rancid, sulphur-y gas suddenly flew out of my mouth without warning.

"Phew!" the devil cried, waving his hand in front of his face. "Smells like home. Sweet succubus, no wonder you're sour; they've poisoned you!"

I feel he must be right. My insides are suddenly in complete rebellion. Everything down wants up, everything in wants out, and they want it right now. My mind is gripped by an unreasoning fury. _He_ is the who urged me to eat it; this is all _his_ _fault!_ The idea of a demon going about randomly 'doing good' offended my idea of the natural order of things. I also suspected he knew what it would do to me and was just playing with me to see what would happen _._ The whole situation made me feel helpless _and that made me furious. "_Why _did_ you have to interfere!? What the devil is a _devil_ doing performing good deeds in the first place? Ludicrous creature..." more eructions and more pain. I feel as though I might heave up everything I'd eaten at any minute.

The creature frowned. "Not good deeds, I was returning the favour."

I stared for a while pondering what that could mean. "Oh. You mean—" and I pointed to my arm, remembering the feel of that hot mouth suckling the wound in what I had assumed was merely a fevered dream. The faceless head inclined a bit. I could almost hear its lips sliding back greasily in a feral grin. I felt along my arm wondering at the fact it wasn't hurting anything like it had been. Yesterday I'd been certain it was broken. In fact yesterday I'd been certain it was _putrefying_. That was the moment I realised it wasn't hurting at all.

"You did something, didn't you?"

A pantomime shrug "A bit."

"And your reason?"I demanded angrily. The angrier I got the more amused the filthy thing seemed to become. Infuriating creature. If I could reach him I'd soon slap that leer off his face.

Another shrug with added hand action up around its ears. "Dunno, I... felt like it?"

"Well...fair enough, I suppose..." I was rather taken aback at his answers. It wasn't what I had expected at all.

"I'll have you know I'm always fair. I make a point of it."

"Hmph. Except when you're not, I wager."

"You know me so well already, I feel we've been friends forever!"

"No stranger to hyperbole or sarcasm either, I see."

"Mmmnnope!" he cried, his voice quite merry and followed by a soft, almost child-like giggle.

Feeling far from my best, I was growing tired of the thing's games rather quickly.

"Why are you here?" I said, unable to keep the dejection and numbness out of my voice. Lying down helped my gut settle a bit.

"Well, someone summoned me, of course."

"Yes yes, but why are you _still_ here?" I persisted.

"That's easy enough: I haven't heard any offer I like, so far.

"Offers. What do they offer you? What do they want? What do _you_ want?"

"Ah! Well, since you ask, what _I_ want is _souls._ I eat souls, you see. It's what sustains me, somewhat like your soup, and I hate to admit it, but most of them really do equate rather precisely to that stomach-turning filth they gave you earlier. "

 _Souls?! He said souls!_ The answer horrified me and struck the words from my mouth.

"Not all of them though. Some are quite sweet, even delightful on the tongue. You, uh, happen to have one lying about you're not doing anything important with, we could do a deal."

_Souls? The thing **eats** souls? My god! I must stop talking to this thing immediately._

"Hmm?" it paused, considering me. Considering my reaction to his words and played at looking shocked and disappointed. "Oh, now see? I've gone and put you off, haven't I, and just when we were getting on so well. I should learn to keep my big gob shut."

_The thing eats **souls**..._

"It's always the same: tell people you live on souls and like that, nobody wants to know you."

A tense silence settled.

"Well, little one," the demon said and turned away. I felt rather than saw a great disturbance in the dark all around and behind him and heard the unmistakable sound of massive feathered wings being put right with a brisk shivering shake. The sound of a roosting bird preparing for flight.

"I can see I am no longer wanted. Give a shout if you should happen to think of something _you_ want... freedom, for instance, or vengeance..."

_Souls. The thing **eats souls.**_


	4. Chapter 4

 

All was quiet now. My stomach had quit hurting _finally,_ after purging everything from my insides with violent sicking up and equally violent evacuations in the other direction. After so much frantic straining and heaving, I lay trembling and exhausted. But at least I was a lot warmer than before with the addition of the blanket and clothes from my former cage mate.

Evening was creeping in over us again with its evil, penetrating damp. The invasive cold was the only way we here in the dark could tell when day had died and night had come. I guessed we must be both below ground and near the river, the way the air felt, perhaps somewhere in that lawless patch called the Docklands. My father had always seemed to worry over that area when reading his daily broadsheet. With things like this going on, it was easy now for me to see why.  There were no windows where we were to let in any light so we were dependent on -well, those of us who still hoped were- on the creeping-damp feeling to gauge the time and the passing of days.

We were entombed here, lost in the dark and forgotten. Night had returned to reclaim all. Suddenly no amount of huddling or bundling or even the sharing of rags and body heat could chase out the penetrating cold.

Such relentless torment was undreamed of when I lived within the well-lit walls of my parents' snug, protected manor house. Compared to this daily anguish even our house servants who slept in the loft or underground by the kitchen lived like kings and queens compared to us children. For us, as well as for so many of London's destitute, each night was spent tensed against the rising chill rolling in off the Thames and every morning spent shaking off the terrible stiffness, making old men of those in their twenties, longing for that meagre cup of hot water they gave each of us every morning to help us recover.

The only real difference here between night and day, I realised, was the nature and quality of the misery we were forced to endure. I knew if I could somehow manage to live through this and regain my freedom, I would never again be able to walk blindly past the nameless, faceless wretches huddled together in alleys and doorways all across night time London as I had once done in my father's arms without understanding the pain and misery they endured.

There was to be no gathering tonight, apparently. The only real disturbance had come when the man who had handed out the bowls of rancid gruel had come back in and had his way with a fragile looking little tow-headed girl who was caged alone far off to my right. And when the pleading and weeping noises were finally over and he'd tossed her back into the cage limp and rumpled, pall of silence settled down thick, heavy and seemingly immovable. Beyond that, and a small cry from behind me as the boy whose bowl I'd tipped out discovered his cage mate had died in his sleep, it was shaping up to be another still, if shiversome, night.

I had gathered the piece of blanket from the dead boy, balled it into a pillow, draped his jacket over my front and sat on my own jacket folded in fours for insulation against the stone floor so I could lean back against the bars of the cage, relax my legs yet still view the room without it causing me too much strain. I did not wish to admit it, but I was seeking that pair of reflective eyes again, wondering if I would see them and if so, what it would lead to. Looking into the dark for those gleaming eyes had very quickly become a habit for me—well, by this point, perhaps obsession would be a better word.

Then again, there was little else to occupy my mind and I did not like to admit it, but I missed having another person with me in the cage. It was a distraction at least, even if I did feel invaded having another person, a complete stranger thrust in upon me and unable to withdraw from them as I wished.

I quickly found myself missing the voice that had spoken to me out of the darkness. Apparently, a devil for company is still better than no company at all.

Enough time had gone by I'd somewhat got over my shock at the thing's confession of what it ate to sustain itself, what it wanted. I was glad now I hadn't suggested it release me or anything else.

I eventually found it—found _him_ again when my eyes quit trying to pierce the darkness and settled on the stone table in the centre of the circle. Apparently it had been watching me search for it the entire time. There was no eyeshine this time—the torchlight was situated behind it—throwing the creature into dense shadow: a pure, black, featureless silhouette. He was stretched out on top of the table in a casual, almost lewd pose, head propped in one hand, one ridiculously long, slender leg bent, the other straight out and jutting far out off the table's end. He surely must be a devil to affect such an insolent pose when damn nearly naked.

"Well what else should I be _but_ a devil?" he asked smirking cheekily, "tsk! And to think I took you for _clever_..." the voice said dryly.

So: my thoughts are an open book to it. So much for plotting to gain some leverage.

"What an interesting habit of mind you possess, little one. Always working the angles and seeking advantages. And you never really stop, do you?I like it, heh," He made a snorting sound I took to mean he was amused. "You would make a rare chess player, I think." It shifted a bit then grinned at me and this time I could see the lower face quite clearly: a thin lipped, very human-looking mouth full of utterly inhuman teeth.

"I already am a rare chess player," I tell him. There goes my resolve to not speak to it. Scuttled by pride, a deadly sin, as I recalled.

"Are you _indeed?_ I knew it! Well splendid, it's settled then: you must give me a game one day soon."

"It isn't very likely now is it, given my circumstances."

"Ah, yes. About that: I ..."

The pause became over-long.

"Demon?" I murmured, wondering if he'd nodded off or something.

"Hm?"

"Did you drift off, laying there?"

" Hmm ... what? Oh. No no no, I don't 'drift off'. I was merely...you know, thinking."

"Thinking..."

"Certainly. Thinking about how easily circumstances may change, you see, just like that!" He snapped his fingers and a spark with a bright blue tongue of flame shot up from his snapping fingertips like a steel striking flint, then winked out just as quickly, leaving behind an after-trail of smoke which slowly snaked its way to the ceiling, a soft, grey ribbon of silk. I watched it twisting and curling its way up into oblivion.

I glanced about me. No one else had so much as looked up. No one but I had heard or seen a thing.

 _Lucky, lucky smoke,_ I thought, _to escape this place so easily._

"Just like that, in the mere blink of an eye and one's circumstances can change utterly. And also I was thinking," he paused and I could feel his eyes on me, "...about how very young you are."

"Young? Well, what of it? The young die just as easily as the old. Easier, in some cases. This room is full of the proof of that. What has that to do with you and what you want, with me, with anything?"

"My thoughts were far from death for once, lordly little chess player. Rather, I was think—"

The doors banged open again: the cultists had returned.


	5. Chapter 5

 

They tell me I am special, these monsters, these _human_ monsters. They are so much worse than those born monstrous like the creature in the shadows—he wasn't given a choice about being born what he is —or at least I presume so— but these _human_ fiends are supposed to have been born in the likeness of God and _look_ at how they _choose_ to behave! I suppose I need to specify then, now I know the other sort of monster also. and probably gods too, exist.

So. I am 'special' they've decided, I will be given the mark of a noble beast, they say, whatever that means, preparatory to being given to Him. Once again, lucky me.

So, I guess it is over for me. I should have made some sort of agreement with the thing in the shadows when I had the chance. He hinted at it. Not as though I was cultivating a saintly soul anyhow. But now, I'm being given to him for free so I no longer have anything to bargain with.

Several of these fat greasy bastards have had their way with me on and over the edge of this stone table. When they first laid me on it (face first! I tried not to think of my face going where that demon's filthy arse had been! I could still feel the heat in the stone from where that creature had been lounging before they all burst in, dragged me out and stripped me bare again. The warm stone was the first real heat I've enjoyed since they threw me into this place—and it was provided by no kindly human either.

It's cold now, though, cold and hard... as I, too, soon hope to be.

Not nearly soon enough though. Already it's too slow for me.

It must be that there simply _is_ no God, no _real_ gods at all. There _can't_ be. We, all of us children in our turn have screamed ourselves hoarse for _anyone_ our God, for angels, the virgin, the Son, the saints, Celtic gods, our _mummies_ , even heathen gods from far away in the case of one otherwise quiet little dark boy whom I'm certain was crying to _his_ gods to save him—Shiva, I heard him cry, and also _Kali_ — before they took him and broke him, _literally_ broke him in two. The sight itself was a sin. I still see it when I close my swollen eyes and try to sleep.

No God of love could possibly exist and look unmoved on such scenes, such slaughter of innocents.

Why is there a _devil_ here, but no proper _god_ willing to save, willing to answer me? I'm shaking and I don't know if it's nerves, fear, cold or sheer _outrage_.

I seem to be fading. I know several of them are messing about with a fire they've built in a corner, poking at it, putting several pokers into the coals...no idea why they would do that. Papa said not to, as he said it would ruin the hardened metal. But then nothing they do here makes any sense at all so why start now?

They say some one of us is an offering to some spirit or demon, but then _they_ all take him, not the devil. They say we are perfect, but then they break us and tear us apart. They praise our innocence and beauty, then take pleasure in taking away that beauty and ruining it, and taking our innocence and defiling it.

None of it makes any sense at all. And now even the devil has given up and turned his back on me.

No...n... _no!_

They are not pokers at all they are _branding_ _irons_ —BRANDI— NOOOOOOAAAAURGH!

.

.

.

... burnt me, _branded_ me oh god, the pain!

.

...'mark of a noble beast', they said. _They_ are the beasts. I really hope...

I hope hell at least is real, even if God and heaven are not. I want them to feel how this feels. I want them to **_burn_**.

I would like to send them there... let the demon and his brethren make playthings of them, just as they've done to me.

These and the monsters who burned my home and killed— killed both my

...even now I can't think about it, about _them._

Lost,

lost

They've taken it all from me, even sanity why am I laughing and crying?

That is how these animals should die. Not good, kind people like—

I can't look any more.

I can't

They have set a fire in my flesh and it won't stop _burning!_

Was that—

...tall and black, like a detached shadow, moving amongst their own numbers...can they _really_ not _see_ him? He walks right amongst them and they do not—what

.

A knife—a knifeno noNo **NO**! Not—urk

no...

.

W-where are they, where did they ... where am I?

.

I am...floating, swimming in a sea of close, thick darkness. Is this—is this

 

am I dead then?

.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Final Chapter, from the demon's point of view.

A knife?

Ah well. It was inevitable I suppose.

*sigh*, _Such_ a fragile, delicate beauty...eh-heh, made even more beautiful now they've painted him red. But I shall need to take action now, as well as get a wiggle on because this pathetic little human has not much life left in him.

"Why did you have to wait so long, little human? You could have commanded me and I would have cheerfully dispatched them _all_ for you. Such a pity...together we could've made rich sport out of making them pay, you and I, finally expressing that deep-rooted, simmering fury of yours." I take his pretty little pointed chin into my black fingers and make him look at me, toying with those full red lips. My thumb slips between them and almost instantly I am rampant--fucking fewmets, I simply cannot keep my hands off the boy.

Such a stunning beauty and so sweetly fragrant a soul! I dip my face down to savour the scent of his mouth, the bouquet of his essence, borne upon his shallow, moist breaths. Alas, he has mere minutes now. Maybe less than minutes. The flood of his heart's blood is slowing to a drip.

"Our chance for that promised chess game is rapidly fading, little one."

Look at those fragile legs. I doubt he could walk even part of an afternoon without collapsing. But how beauteous the curve from his dainty ankles to those fulsome, graceful calves. Ah! gods and demons, how I want my mouth upon them.

He cannot even speak now but _can_ he _glare_! A pity the strength of his body cannot equal the strength of his anger. Cold, weak fingers clutch my wrist as I pet his hot little cheek, like alabaster stained with a fevered flush on that plump, round-oh, how I should like to take a bite of those apples-he is altogether delectable. What a feast was here squandered!

I cannot help but sigh, forcing myself to come to terms with the imminent loss of _so much_ potential. I look deep into those impossibly huge, deep blue eyes one last time, promising myself I will remember him, when in truth it is about as likely as a human remembering an outstanding breeze that kissed their face once on a less-than-memorable hot day... nevertheless I try, and I prepare myself to make the best of this dreadfully unfortunate situation by devouring his soul as-is.

Just look at those bluer-than-sky-blue eyes... blue as the heaven I fell from.

On the physical plane, other hands, hot, sweaty, covetous hands are clutching at me from all around us now. I can no longer be bothered hiding from them. They are not nearly important enough at this point. But they see me and take me for the demon they worship, the demon they had hoped to call, and they are swarming around me, fawning, begging, pleading for power, moaning for money, demanding fame, beauty, prominence, youth, love. They whine for me to kill someone they haven't the stones to kill themselves, to make another's man or woman their own, a throne, business, to be the second coming of croesus, the next Maurice Barrymore or Ellen Terry—all the usual shallow, annoying blather...weak, repulsive toadies. I enjoy treading on hands and kicking faces.

Some truly frantic harridan of their number has clawed and elbowed and ploughed her way past the rest. past the men, between and over and through their legs, refusing to be denied, to come clutching and climbing me like a pole to make me a delightfully filthy hands-on offer. She reaches round my hips, grabs my ass and puts her mouth to me with a lewd grin and rolling eyes, sure of her attractions and the efficacy of her direct methods.

Too bad she is so utterly, loathsomely corrupt already. Where is the fun in that, I ask you? I pull my knee up between her and my own body, plant my boot on her neck taking great pleasure in shoving her off me, along with six more directly behind her. Oops, heel caught her in the throat a bit and tore...

O Well. No great loss.

They are so very easy to ignore, _but this boy_ , _this boy, now_...

Oh, I _**want** him_.

The knife is still planted squarely in his tiny, shuddering heart. So squarely, I can see it visibly quiver with every attempted contraction of that failing organ. No, I cannot do it. I cannot simply give up on him. I must try one last time. Surely _now_ the hatred in his heart is finally ripe enough? If I latch on to that ceremonial knife I might be able to use it as a conduit to infuse him with some of my own life force--I have plenty, enough to spare, enough to keep his faltering little candle aflame a few moments longer. A few more moments should be enough for one last, quick conversation. In truth, he is so far gone I am able to shed these pathetic hangers-on and move to the spiritual plane to speak with him. There we can have a little peace and privacy from phallus-mouthing harpies and their ilk.

Much better...here, where it is all spirit and nothing of frail and limiting bodies like his. Here his eye is not dimmed in the least, here he is still a fiery, vibrant thing full of all the raw strength his delicate and inadequate flesh so oddly lacks. What a curious mix he is: so hot a flame in such a crumbling mortal vessel. I could do so _much_ with such a creature, heh, and so much to him...what lovely sins we two could commit together, mmm, wrapped in one anothers' arms... or perhaps that is just the stiffness talking.

"So, my noble homunculus, have you thought of anything you would have of me? Anything you might care to do to this filthy pack of dogs who have beaten your body, branded your flesh and buggered you bloody? Now is the moment to speak, little one."

"Perhaps I have," he says. "But..." he stops to look about. "what _is_ this place? And why are you holding onto the knife like that?"

"Sorry, no time for sightseeing. We can speak of it later. Can you not feel you are on death's doorstep? You are only still on that doorstep because I am holding you there with my own power. I will not do so forever, so listen carefully: you could have this power to use for anything you liked. You could return to the land of the living and have your vengeance on them all—I am more than capable of giving you that and more, but only if we contract together— but it is important that you understand, if you take my hand in agreement this way, the way to God's presence will be forever barred to you."

"Tch," he sneers, "There _is_ no Go—"

"No, little one. You are mistaken in that. These eyes have seen the proof of it. I insist on this point because you _must_ clearly understand what it is you are relinquishing if you join hands with me."

"Well then He exists, but does not care for me. And if not, why should I suffer and die just to go to be with one who doesn't care enough to save me from such pain and humiliation when I really needed Him? I am not leaving Him, He has already lost interest in and left me."

I am not obligated to point out the errors in this reasoning or explain to such complex matters such as His own reasons when it comes to saving humans or not saving  them—and anyway now is not the time to begin teaching catechism or Theology, nor is it in my best interests. I have already gone far out of my way to be extremely fair to this morsel  of Man-flesh— so to this, I say nothing.

"Then you _do_ wish to form a contract with me?" I extend my hand—my left hand—to him. He clasps it without reservation and brings it to his breast drawing me closer. Back in the physical plane cries for someone to stop the boy treating with me ring out. There is at least one person paying attention who understands the stakes and what this parley could lead to for them.

Quake, you cowards; I shall turn my attention to you quite soon now.

"Yes. I understand the price. All of it. And I accept. Sell me your strength, demon, I have need of you and nothing would please me more than contracting with you."

"I too, little one, strange as that may seem."

"Right, then. What next?"

"To seal the agreement, we must mark our bodies with my sigil to signify our agreement to contract. It will appear on the back of my left hand, symbolizing the harnessing of my strength to your will. The placement of your mark is a matter of your choice, but know that the more prominently it is displayed, the more of my power will be available for you to command. You have but one soul, little one: I advise you to think carefully and not squander it."

"Nor will I. Place it wherever I will have the most power. More power than anyone  else!"

"My my, so small, but already _so_ _very_ greedy!" Participating in the seven deadly sins already; this may well be a very short contract, I think. "Well then: I'll place it here," I say, covering his right eye with my hand. "Here, on this big blue eye of yours, so full of despair." It is, of course a demon's deepest instinct to mar beauty, to ruin and destroy what brings honour to the One who made him. The beauty of his eyes was one of the things that drew me, so it pleases me to at least partly destroy that beauty even as I brand him as my possession.

The pain for us both is grotesque, the smell of flesh scorched in Hellfire envelops us for a moment, but it is no worse than anything else he's suffered and creatures like myself are built for pain. This suffering at least has a point to it and that fact gives him the strength to take it fairly stoically.

How beautiful and brash it is, right there in his eye, bold as brass! I think I love him. Certainly I covet him. Certainly I could easily be persuaded to gobble him up in a heartbeat, I think to myself as the channel between us slowly yields to me and I close my eyes and concentrate on this new plane opening before me: a window into his inner life. So many bright new thoughts and ideas to defile! I'm dizzied with the orgasmic rush of it.

When the pain fades, I take his hand, draw him up from the altar to a sitting position. I place one hand tight over the wound where they have plunged in the blade so that I may quickly heal him as I draw the athame free.

That accomplished, I bring him to his feet and the rabble fall back suddenly silent and fearful...heheh as well they should be.

"Well now! And what a tiny little master you are, to be sure. What is your name, my little Lord?"

"Ciel. Ciel Phantomhive. And now my father is dead, I am the earl of Phantomhive."

_Ciel, eh? Ah, heaven indeed, what exquisite irony_. "Votre bel oeil bleu sera mon ciel, mon dieu, Ciel, mon paradis," I say, bowing deeply.

"Je ne suis pas ciel, Demon. Surtout pas le vôtre. Votre dieu, oui."

Heh, so quick he is, quick and arrogant! I shall have to watch my step with this one.

"Now then, Little Master, shall we begin?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're too lazy to Google it, proto-Sebastian says to Ciel (buttering up the new boss):
> 
> "That beautiful blue eye of yours will be my heaven, my god Ciel. My paradise," But Ciel sasses him right back saying, 
> 
> "I'm nobody's heaven, Demon, especially not yours. But I'll be your god, all right."


End file.
